“How many men protect him?”
“A handful of knights, and a few dozen men-at-arms. No more than fifty warriors in total. A number that should be easily handled in a surprise attack.”
Again they would use Bruce’s own tactics against him. Bruce had proved the effectiveness of small numbers in quick, surprise attacks launched in darkness in places of their choosing.
“And what of his phantom army? Have you managed to identify any of them?”
MacKay’s face sprang immediately to mind. He was almost convinced his old nemesis was part of the famed group. He gritted his teeth. “I have a few suspicions, but I think you are keeping most of them busy out west.”
Lorn smiled. “As I shall continue to do. How soon do you think it will be done?”
“Bruce has a few more castles that he plans to visit before turning west. I should think sometime in late July. He plans to hold the Highland Games in August.”
He decided not to mention it would be at Dunstaffnage, which was Lorn’s stolen castle.
Lorn frowned, not bothering to hide his impatience. “What is this I’ve heard of Bruce falling ill again at Dunrobin?”
“Rumors, my lord,” he assured him, surprised the news had reached Lorn’s ears in the west, when such an effort had been made to contain it.
The poison had been his one miscalculation. One he would not make again. He was fortunate that Helen was a better healer than he’d realized. Bruce dying at Dunrobin would have brought scrutiny and criticism to the clan.
It was the last thing he wanted. What he did, he did for the Sutherlands. The honor of the entire clan had been impinged when they’d been forced to bow to the usurper, but he would get it back by defeating Bruce and restoring Balliol to the throne. Will’s hand had been forced by Ross, but he would thank him in the end.
Conscious that every moment he spent on Scottish soil he was in danger, Lorn did not linger. “In July, then.” They shook hands, and Lorn started toward hisbirlinn. He’d nearly reached the water’s edge when he turned back. “I almost forgot. You were right—there were reports of a strange explosion last December.”
He stilled.Gordon.
“But not at Forfar,” Lorn said. “At Threave, when Bruce’s phantoms were said to have defeated two thousand Englishmen.”
It was the confirmation he’d been waiting for. William Gordon had been a member of Bruce’s famed guard, which made MacKay almost certainly a member as well.
And then there was Helen. What had she known of it? He intended to find out.
Eleven
The connection didn’t last. If Helen hoped that the bond forged in those long, desperate hours while caring for the king marked a new beginning with Magnus, she was to be disappointed.
In the intervening days as the king continued to improve, Magnus displayed the same steady, matter-of-fact disposition that she remembered so well. And just as before, the inability to decipher his true feelings proved frustrating. He was polite to a fault, but distant and remote. He displayed none of the fierce longing and attraction that rose in her chest and nearly suffocated her with its intensity whenever she looked at him. She could almost imagine he hadn’t lost control and kissed her—really kissed her.
His duties to the king and hers as healer ensured that for the first time since arriving at Dunrobin Castle he could not avoid her, but any attempts at personal conversation were instantly quashed. As the king continued to improve, Magnus’s duties tended less toward personal bodyguard and more toward captain of the king’s guard. Duties that took him away. More often, Gregor MacGregor, Neil Campbell, or Alexander Fraser could be found at the king’s bedside.
But Helen knew the king’s illness had given her a reprieve, and she did not intend to squander the opportunity. Her declaration of love had fallen on deaf ears. Obviously, he didn’t believe her. She would just have to prove it to him, showing him how she felt by boldly tempting him with the one weapon she had: desire.
The only problem was that she didn’t know how to be bold. With little female guidance—even less since Muriel had gone—flirting and seduction were not an art she’d perfected. So she took to observing the servants. But unless she intended to start wearing gowns from which her bosom spilled out, and pick up a pitcher of ale to bend over and pour (displaying those bosoms to their full advantage) while men fondled her bottom, she didn’t know how to proceed.
But he was not as immune to her as he wanted her to think. Never far from her mind was that kiss. He wanted her. Of that he was willing to admit. It was a start. An opening through which she could attack. If lust was the sword that would penetrate his shield, she intended to do what she could to pierce his defenses.
With Donald gone it should have been easier. Will had sent him to Inverness in search of Muriel when the first messenger had returned empty-handed. But of course, there were still her brothers with whom to contend.
She grimaced. They were making it exceedingly difficult on her. Will was in a foul temper, which Kenneth blamed on the king’s illness. When she wasn’t attending the king, her eldest brother the formidable earl ensured her duties kept her too busy to do anything else. Kenneth was worse. Except for the blissful (and far too short) two days while he was at Skelbo Castle, it seemed as if every time she turned around, her unnecessary and unwanted “protector” was there.
“Where are you off to this beautiful morning, sister?”
She stiffened. He followed her so closely he was lucky she hadn’t stomped on his nose. It would serve him right if she did. Her brother was nearly as handsome as Gregor MacGregor but far more arrogant. Attention from women was the one thing he’d never had to fight for. Women fell at his feet, and he let them enjoy the view.
Helen gritted her teeth and tried to smile. “I thought I’d check with the cook to see if the shipment of lemons has arrived. The king enjoys a bit of the juice with his ale.”
She wondered whether he even heard her answer. Kenneth’s eyes narrowed as he scanned her gown.
